


Don't Feed Me, Seymour

by gyzym



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-26
Updated: 2010-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyzym/pseuds/gyzym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This looks delicious," Eames fucking <i>lies</i>, because the only accurate statement would be <i>This looks like intestines</i>, and he would like Arthur to continue to shagging him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Feed Me, Seymour

Arthur, Eames has discovered, is a man of many skills.

Oh, sure, there are the basic ones, the frightening competence and the sharpshooting and what have you. He's like living breathing death with a gun in his hand, blah blah, people cower in the wake of his Armani-clad angry face, yes, of course. It's all very fabulous, Eames is sure, but he's is rather more interested in the skill set he has recently discovered: for example, Arthur can put his legs behind his head. Arthur can keep a stiffy going twice as long as anyone else Eames has ever fucked. Arthur gives shockingly incredible head.

However.

Eames looks down at his plate, and up at Arthur, and back at his plate, and back at Arthur. Arthur is smiling at him, a tentative kind of smile, and this is the first time he has allowed Eames to stay for breakfast, and really, really, that's excellent.

It's just that if Eames had known breakfast would entail eggs that are somehow both runny and burnt at once, he might have hesitated to push for the privilege.

"This looks delicious," he fucking _lies_ , because the only accurate statement would be _This looks like intestines_ , and he would like Arthur to continue to shagging him. "Thank you. I'll just…eat it, then, shall I?"

"That's generally what you do with food," Arthur agrees, raising an eyebrow. And Eames really can't see another way out of this, so he picks up his fork and takes a bite.

Oh. Oh. Oh. It is the _worst_. It is the worst thing ever. Eames thinks there might be _paprika_ in it, oh god, the world is ending in chaos and despair, oh, why, _why_ \--

"Good?" Arthur asks.

 _Think of the incredible head_ , Eames tells himself desperately. _Think of the time in the shower. For the love of god, think of his arse_.

"Mmmm," he manages. "Fantastic."

\--

Unfortunately, this innocent comment in the name of the greater good apparently convinces Arthur that Eames _enjoys his cooking_.

"I made brownies," Arthur says, coming into the warehouse with a plate.

 _Oh no_ , thinks Eames.

"Oh good," says Eames.

"I didn't know you could bake, Arthur," Ariadne says, coming over to them. Out of Arthur's line of vision, Eames waves his arms and mouths _He can't, save yourself_.

Ariadne's eyes widen.

"I don't, not much," Arthur says, "but I felt the urge. You want one?"

"I am…allergic," Ariadne says, and Eames curses his obviously inferior brain for not having come up with that excuse himself. "To, uh, some things. Excuse me?"

She beats a hasty retreat, and Arthur narrows his eyes briefly in confusion and then shrugs. "Well, here, you can have hers, I guess."

 _His arse_ , Eames reminds himself, reaching out a hand to take one, _do it for England and Arthur's arse, Eames, be strong_.

It tastes like death. It crumbles in a way that entirely fails to be pleasant. It is like how he always imagined eating sawdust would be. He could drink the English Channel and his mouth _would still be dry_.

"Wonderful," he mumbles, and fakes an urgent call to avoid eating another.

\--

"Are you hungry?" Arthur asks, flopping down onto the pillows next to Eames. Eames, who had been enjoying a very pleasant post-orgasm shudder, freezes.

"No," he says at once, but his stomach--his filthy traitor of a stomach--growls. Arthur laughs and rolls his eyes and gets up on shaky legs, and oh, he's so attractive, he's so _very_ attractive.

 _How can anyone be so attractive and so dangerous at once?_ Eames wonders, thinking about frying pans and gross misappropriations of flour rather than guns and willingness to commit acts of torture.

"I could cook this time," Eames offers desperately. "It's probably my turn, because, ahaha, because the last time I cooked was--"

"Yesterday," Arthur says, frowning, "and the day before that, and the day before that."

 _Arthur and I have been fucking an awful lot,_ Eames realizes, and in the pleased haze of this discovery, he completely forgets to argue further until it is already too late.

It's…there's…ketchup on it. Eames thinks it might be an attempt at meatloaf, but it's very difficult to be sure. Which, just-- _meatloaf_. You just shove some meat in a pan, don't you, basically? Even just meat in a pan would be fine. Eames would happily eat plain meat in a pan.

He pokes at it tentatively. It…jiggles.

Trying valiantly not to cower in fear, Eames take a bite. The jiggling does not actually cease once it is in his mouth. Vaguely, through the cloud of unending horror that is descending rapidly over his gastrointestinal system, Eames thinks he can taste cinnamon.

"Well?" says Arthur.

"A triumph," Eames tells him, and only adds _in the art of destroying my soul_ in his mind.

\--

The perfect solution occurs to him one night over something that Arthur had referred to as "shrimp scampi."

It is, in fact, to shrimp scampi as a two year old warbling in rage is to _La Boheme_ , but Eames is trying not to think about that.

But the thought, the glorious, incredible, can't-believe-it-took-me-so long thought, is: a dog. He could get Arthur a dog. A dog with very, very inferior taste buds. The kind of dog that eats its own feces.

They exist. Eames has seen then. He is at least 65% sure that fecal matter would be worse than Arthur's cooking.

"Do you know what would look great with your sofa," says Eames, "is a dog. Don't you think a dog would add to the overall tone of your decor?"

Arthur wrinkles his nose. "I'm allergic to dogs."

For a minute, thinking lovingly of how easy it would be to drop a plate of food into the creature's mouth, Eames considers getting him one anyway. Then he remembers how unhappy Arthur is on days with a high pollen count, and thinks better of it.

 _There's that plan buggered, then_ , he decides, and stares mournfully at the mound of food he has left to suffer through.

\--

It all comes to a head the night Arthur slides a plate in front of him that is covered in…noodles. They're noodles, it's _pasta_ , how could _anyone_ cock up pasta--but he's done it, the bastard has done it. There's some kind of substance on it that might, in very very soft lighting, be deemed sauce, and he's managed to burn the _prepackaged frozen garlic bread_ , and the whole thing looks and smells like sick.

"Oh, god," Eames says, "oh, no."

"What?" Arthur asks, sitting down at the table. Eames looks up at him and his hair is starting to fall into his eyes and he's smiling, ever so slightly, and he considers eating it. He really does. He's suffered through a lot of terrible cooking for Arthur's arse and Arthur's cheekbones and the way Arthur mumbles in his sleep, and really, he could probably suffer through--

The smell hits him again in a wave of agony, and Eames' mind is made up.

"Arthur," he says, more than a little desperate, "Arthur, love, the thing is, I just--I can't do it, oh, god, and if you never shag me again I will mourn this, really I will, I will regret my inability to soldier on _very_ deeply, but there are just--self preservation instincts, aren't there, and there's only so long a man can fight them--"

"What are you talking about?" Arthur asks, furrowing his brow. Eames drops his head into his hands in despair.

"I can't eat it," he moans, "Christ, I can't, I can't do it, Arthur, you are just--you are the _worst cook in the world_ , I can't bear it, I've tried but this is, just, I can't, I'm sorry, I can't."

Arthur doesn't say anything, but he does make a very small noise, and Eames is afraid to look up. Eventually he has to, though, because Arthur is still making the noises and they might well be, you know, the noises he makes right before he _strangles a man to death_ , Eames wouldn't know. He's never actually seen Arthur strangle anyone, although he does not put it past him.

He lifts his head, and that's when he realizes that Arthur is _laughing_.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, a howl of mirth escaping around the words, "I'm sorry, just, your _face_ \--"

"My face?" Eames asks, confused. Arthur just laughs harder, shaking with it, clutching his stomach.

 _Maybe I have induced some kind of psychotic break_ , Eames thinks, concerned. _Maybe this blow to his ego has sprung his tentative grip on sanity at at last_.

"Has this blow to your ego sprung your tentative grip on sanity at last?" says Eames, because he's not always so great at filtering his thoughts in times of stress.

Arthur tumbles off his chair and actually _rolls on the floor_.

"Arthur!" says Eames. "Arthur, darling, really, this is very disconcerting."

"Just," Arthur chokes out between peals of laughter, "just, no more talking until I can--oh my _god_ , and no more--no more faces, just, god, Eames, ahahaha, just look at the ceiling or something for a minute, _Jesus_."

Obligingly, Eames looks up at the ceiling. After a minute, Arthur's laughter quiets, and Eames hears him get up and sit back down in his chair. He breathes heavily for a second, in that way you do when you're trying to calm yourself from hysteria, and then he says "Okay, okay, you can look down now."

Eames looks down. Arthur's flushed bright red with amusement and his hair is everywhere and he's biting down on his fist to keep himself from laughing again. If Eames were not so worried as to his mental health, he'd shove their Dinner of Doom onto the floor where it belongs and take him right here on this table.

He seriously considers doing it despite his concerns, but decides that that would be wrong.

"If you could please explain," Eames says faintly, "I would appreciate it."

"Okay," Arthur agrees. He actually reaches across the table and _takes Eames' hand_ , which ratchets Eames' worry for his sanity up tenfold.

"Eames," he says, "I _know_ I'm a terrible cook."

Eames blinks at him. "No you don't."

Briefly, Arthur looks like he's going to laugh again, but then he schools his features into a more neutral expression. "I do. I really do. I'm the worst cook in the history of the world."

"That's what I said," Eames tells him. "Are you--are you mocking me? Is this self-defensive mockery?"

"A little mockery," Arthur says, "but not in self defense. I've always been a shit cook. I honestly can't believe it took you this long to say something--I thought you'd give it up ages ago."

Eames gapes at him, stunned, as everything slots into place.

"Have you been _testing me_?" he demands. "Testing me, like--like a _test_?"

"I'd call it an experiment, really," Arthur says musingly. "I would have told you flat-out at the start if I'd known you were going to push it this long, but after the meatloaf thing I wanted to see how long it would take."

"But," says Eames, "but I ate--I ate the thing with the _bologna_ , Arthur!"

Arthur winces. "I felt bad about that one," he admits. "I ordered a pizza after you went to bed."

"You _ordered a pizza_?!" Eames cries. "You ordered a fucking _pizza_? I felt ill for a _week_!"

"I know," Arthur says, grimacing. "I sleep with you, remember? That was not your most aromatic week ever."

"Do not even," Eames warns, furious. "Do not _even_ , Arthur, I can't--you sadistic treacherous _bastard_ , why the hell would you--"

"Honestly?" Arthur says, a very faint flush coming to his cheeks.

"Yes, _honestly_."

"It was," Arthur says, not meeting his eyes. "You know. Nice of you. Not to say anything. I expected--well. I, uh. Yeah."

"If you think commenting on my vaulting inarguable virtue is going to win you favor, you're quite mistaken," Eames informs him sternly. It's such a lie--Arthur is still blushing and Eames is less angry _already_ \--but he doesn't see any reason not to milk this.

He had been _viciously tortured_ , after all.

But Arthur--stupid infuriating Arthur, Arthur who is always too bloody brilliant for _anyone's_ good, least of all Eames'--Arthur is giving him a look that suggests he knows his anger has waned.

"Well," he says, his voice all suggestion, "what can I do to make it up to you?"

And Eames decides, really, that one _completely horrible_ turn deserves another. Eames decides that two can play at that game.

"I'll tell you what," he says, pitching his voice low and serious. He squeezes Arthur's hand, and is gratified by how much the bastard isn't laughing _now_. "There is one thing you could do for me."

"Uh," Arthur says, swallowing. "Uh, okay?"

Without letting go of Arthur's hand, Eames stands, walking over to his chair, and drops onto one knee. Arthur's eyes are wide like saucers, terrified and utterly panicked, and really, it's a good thing Eames is such a good actor.

" _Darling_ ," he murmurs, "would you do me the very great honor of…"

"Of??" Arthur says, high-pitched in horror. Eames leans close to whisper in his ear.

"Of _never cooking again_ ," he hisses, his voice like steel.

For a second, Arthur is completely frozen. Then the moment breaks and they are both howling with laughter, leaning into each other and cackling.

"You _bastard_ ," Arthur says, "you asshole, oh my god--"

"I hope that was as distressing for you as last week's tuna casserole was for me," Eames chokes out, and Arthur grips at his shoulder to hold himself upright, laughing like he's never going to stop.

"Your _face_ ," he says, "oh my god, Eames, your face--"

" _Your_ face," Eames corrects. "I thought you were going to have a coronary."

" _So did I_ ," Arthur manages, and for all he can hardly breathe, for all it's the funniest thing in the world, Eames can't help but lean up and kiss him. It is the strangest kiss of his life, because they're both still edging around hysteria and falling into each other and Arthur slides out of his chair and more-or-less onto Eames' lap, the trial of remaining upright apparently having gotten to be too much.

It is the strangest kiss of Eames' life and then, suddenly, it's not, because Arthur is close and flush against him, and he's not laughing anymore. Eames presses him against the table leg and thinks about the fact that he can have Arthur _and_ a fully functioning stomach, and is content.

"You want to get takeout?" Arthur asks, pulling away slightly.

"Maybe later," Eames murmurs, reaching down to undo Arthur's tie. "That's not exactly what I'm hungry for right now."

"Mmm," Arthur agrees, hooking his legs around Eames' waist, and they don't talk anymore.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Don't Feed Me, Seymour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513091) by [EmilianaDarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling)




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